


Patience Means Self-Suffering

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-15
Updated: 2005-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7093333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel and Spike are waiting for Wesley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience Means Self-Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Swish, swish, swish, swoosh. Swish, swish, swish, swoosh. Swish, swish, yank. As Spike paced by, Angel grabbed the tails of his duster. "Sit down," he growled and jerked Spike into a waiting room chair.

"What's the bloody harm of me walking?" he faced his ultra-brooding sire.

Angel leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. "You're driving me nuts. Sit still."

Spike scoffed and went to get back up, but Angel's hand snapped out and forcefully plopped him right back down. "I can't sit still," Spike defended. "I can't just sit here and do nothing."

Angel straightened his posture, "What are you going to do?" He gestured to the door the patients entered, "Walk back there and take Wesley's x-rays?"

"I've set broken bones before," but Spike knew this was not what his irritated sire wanted to hear. "How can you sit there so bloody calm?"

"Patience, perhaps you should try it," he turned away from Spike and gazed back out the window. Not much to see, too dark outside and the room was too bright. It turned the window into a mirror, reflected all those who sat in front of it. None of them were vampires, that's good.

He sensed movement from beside him and reached out to stop whatever Spike was doing. "Oi! wanker," Spike cussed, his hand and the pack of cigarettes were crushed.

"You better not be thinking about smoking here," Angel's voice was low, hovering between demonic and human.

"God. I can't pace, I can't smoke, I can't go raid the bloody blood bank. What can I do?"

"Sit and be quiet."

Spike leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and intentionally whacked his head against the wall, staring up at the yellowing drop ceiling. He stayed that way for a few minutes, fantasizing about killing Angel. 

Picking up his plastic chair and bashing him over the head. Laughing as all the patients scrabble away. Angel would spring to his feet and hit him a few times. In a good fight, you always get hit a few times. 

But Spike would kick the poof into the crappy coffee table, squashing it like a bug. Angel would get a chunk of wood and try to stake Spike with it. There would be dodging and blocks and punches and kicks and maybe even a back flip. But somehow Spike would get the stake away from Angel or maybe he would get his own and sink it into the wanker's fleshy body, watching him turn to little bits of dust on the floor. 

Spike sighed and lowered his head. Ah, good times. God he needed to smoke. "Can I go outside?" he whined like a little kid.

And like a parent, Angel thought it over. "Yeah, I'll come and get you when Wes is ready."

Twenty minutes after Spike went outside to smoke, to pace, to beat the hell out of the dumpster and whatever else Spike was up to, Wesley exited the emergency room. Angel jumped to his feet and stood next to his friend as Wesley handed papers to the receptionist.

"How you feel?" Angel asked.

Wesley smiled the best he could, "Like I was hit by a truck." Which was Spike's excuse when they brought Wesley in. Broken arm, broken ribs, skid marks on his back. It made perfect sense, better than he was backhanded by a stone golem.

They went outside and found Spike pacing, smoking and muttering to himself. Wesley called his name and he stopped. Tossing the still burning cigarette to the side, he bounced up to his bandaged lover. Intent upon crushing him close and never letting go, but Angel stopped him. He placed his hand against Spike's chest, aborting his hugging attempt. "Careful," Angel warned and removed his hand.

Spike scoffed and embraced Wesley gingerly, keeping to the side without the broken arm, trying not to put any pressure on Wesley's ribs. "How do you feel, luv?" Spike whispered gently into Wesley's ear.

"A bit sore," he whispered back. Being in Spike's arms, he suddenly felt weary and closed his eyes. "A little tired."

Spike kissed him tenderly. "Don't worry." He ran the backs of his fingers down Wesley's cheek. "I'll take care of you."

#end#


End file.
